


Coming Clean

by MissCocoPuffs



Category: Green Day
Genre: Bike, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCocoPuffs/pseuds/MissCocoPuffs
Summary: After revealing a life-long secret to his mother, Mike Pritchard is sent to therapy, where he finds a soulmate in the least expected person: his therapist's son.





	1. Dear Diary

**Author's Note:**

> This is a brand new story, and I'm still working out the details. Chapters might be edited in the future. Comments and suggestions are always welcomed.

_**"Friday, September 1st, 1989.** _

_**3:08 a.m.** _

_Dear Diary,_

_I really don't know how to do this. I can't._ _I simply can't._

_I honestly wish I had something to write about, but I don't. I’ve been sitting here for hours now, and all I have managed to come up with is a half-assed complaint about not having anything to write about. Does that count for anything at all? And if it does, is it really worthwhile?_

_Dr. Armstrong certainly seems to think so, this diary thing was her idea, to begin with. Now that I think about it, I don’t know whether she is going to read this, so writing about her might not be my best decision ever, but it's not like I can back down either. The rules are quite simple: write every day and don’t cross out anything. Apparently, it’s something called “stream of consciousness” where you just let your mind wander at its own pace, not really worrying about the outcome, in fact, that is the point of the whole thing. She thinks it might help me get some answers, which is something I don’t necessarily need, nor do I want, so who are the answers really for, doctor? You? Mom?_

_Well, just in case you **are** reading, rest assure you are doing your job, you know, the job mom is paying you almost $350 an hour to do. This really seems to be working. After all, I'm finally talking aren't I? I know how important that is to you. You seemed very vocal about it after you called my mom into your office to tell her I seemed to be making no progress at all, yet you still had no problem taking her check. By the way, is she supposed to be reading this as well? Mom, if you are, I’m sorry, but I think you’re being scammed._

_Maybe, just maybe, you should start your own diary, mommy. I know that coming to terms with the fact that your precious little son is not exactly who you would want him to be can be hard. To put it in your own terms, the plans you had for me, growing up to be a successful businessman, like daddy, following in his steps, getting married, having children… they didn’t turn out to be as they should have, now did they? I’m really sorry about that, even when I know I shouldn’t be._

_But… have you ever stopped to think about it? I mean, **really** think about it. After the last few months, haven’t you considered at least once that maybe not being like my father is the best thing that could ever happen to me? To you? Sure, I may not be as good at Math as he was, or date as many cheerleaders as he did; maybe I’m not the captain of the football team, or a walking stereotype, for that matter. Probably I won’t grow up to become a visionary entrepreneur either, but do you realize that it also means I’m never going to leave my family to run off with a woman who’s half your age, and leave you alone to deal with your troubled gay son? Isn’t that fantastic, mom?_

_Doesn’t it give you **hope**?_

_I’m sorry for my phrasing. Does that word, **hope** , make you cringe a little bit? Because it certainly didn’t after I told you I wasn’t straight, and that I needed your support, but you responded with a horrified look, and a door slam followed by a week of utter silence._

_How ironic, isn’t it? When I don’t speak, I need therapy, but it’s okay when you do it because I’m clearly the one who is being the asshole here. What’s the first thing you told me afterward? Let's recall together, shall we?_

_You didn’t speak to me for seven days, but when you finally got your speech together, you made damn sure your point came across. It’s not like you hurled a bible at me, but you might as well have. It would have been far less painful than seeing you sit across from me in my own bedroom while you let me know that being gay was not how **God** had intended it, therefore, being **like that** was not an option, not if I still wanted to be part of the family, that is. Then, after reminding me of all the past times I had let you down, your next line was the final blow to my heart. “I’m this close to giving up all **hope** on you, Michael; therapy is your last chance,” and you didn’t even look at me when you said that. Was it because you knew it was bullshit, or because you merely couldn’t stand to look at me any longer? Don’t bother; I don’t want to know._

_Just for the record, you might want to know that I fucking hate it when people call me **Michael**._

_That night, I decided to try one last thing, but it was useless. I knew it would be, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself unless I tried._

_“Does dad know about this?”_

_“He is the one who made the appointment with Dr. Armstrong.”_

_“Of course he did,” I smiled knowingly as I lowered my gaze. I don’t know what I was expecting._

_“What if I refuse to go?”_

_You didn't take that well. You told me I didn’t know what **I** was doing to **you** , that I hadn’t even stopped to consider **your** feelings when I decided to follow this **lifestyle**. As if it had been in my power all along, mom. With you around, nothing ever is._

_“But this has nothing to do with you. This is who I am,” I told you, with tears in my eyes._

_“You don’t know who you are, and to tell the truth, I don’t know either,” you went on to say. And it was then that I had to agree with you. You really don't know me. You really have no fucking clue._

_What I do know, mom, is that if I ever have a family, I’m going to make damn sure my children don’t turn out to be like me, that’s for sure, confused, anxious, stressed out, depressed, and frustrated about life in general, but I certainly don’t want them to turn out like you either. Hell no. They will be free to decide who they want to be. If they ever need therapy, I’m going to let them take that step, and I’m going to listen to them, and I’m going to love them enough to respect their decisions, instead of shoving them into some damn Dr. Armstrong’s office, who will only make them write every day in a fucking diary because just like you, and just like dad, she doesn't know how to get rid of me, of the burden that I represent._

_So there you go, mom. There you go, dad. There you go, Dr. Armstrong. A whole page of feelings and suppressed emotions lies now in front of you. Is this what you wanted? I know it's far from being so, but it's the truth._

_Well, I have done my homework, now maybe you can do some fucking parenting. Yes, the three of you. Oh, didn’t I mentioned it, doc? I ran into Billie Joe on my way out. His name is Billie Joe, right? He was crying his eyes out. It looked like he could certainly use a diary himself. Anyway, don’t you worry about it. I’ll make sure to bring him one on my next visit._

_Mike Pritchard."_

He closed the notebook shut with as much force as he could, making the desk tremble. Heavy tears were running down his face for what seemed to be the millionth time that week. After all, it definitely seemed like he had something to say.


	2. Walking a Lonely Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Friday, another evening spent at Dr. Armstrong's office. Anxiety comes back, as well as that green-eyed boy Mike met last week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me forever to write. I finally got to a point where I seem to be mildly satisfied with the way it came out. Still figuring out details and the path I want this story to take. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy reading it. It's going slow, I know, but bear with me!

It was exactly a quarter to six when they pulled up in front of the two-story building on Martin Luther King Way. The sun had begun to set, or so Mike could appreciate through the tinted windows of his mother's black BMW.

He watched delightedly as warm tones of orange and light purple stained the previously clear sky, and he couldn't help but thinking about all the things he could be doing on a Friday afternoon, especially one as beautiful as this one, like taking a walk in the park, for example, or better yet, attending whatever gig was on at Gilman, maybe driving all the way up to Tight Wad Hill after and score himself some weed; it was practically the weekend already, and all the dealers with the good stuff would be there. Hell, he would have even contented himself with a quiet evening at home watching an old movie, but no. Instead, he was here, on Martin Luther King Way, ready for his weekly session with Dr. Armstrong, and he'd be damned if he could imagine something worse.

“ _Michael,_ I have to go. Tell me you’re going to be okay by yourself," Mrs. Pritchard said suddenly with the monotonous tone that was so characteristic of her, but to the boy in the passenger seat, whose opinion of his mother had hardly ever been that low, the words only sounded forced, unconcerned, and just plain fake.

She usually waited for him in the clinic's lobby, but not this time around. This time around, she hadn't even bothered to tell him where she was going, she'd just said she had some sort of important business to take care of, using the same tone his father did whenever Mike asked him if he wanted to play catch with him. _So typical_ , he thought to himself, but he quickly shook his head in an attempt to shove all hurtful memories out of his mind, for now at least, or for as long as it was humanly possible.

" _Michael?_ "

“I heard you. I'll be fine," he spat bluntly. That had been the first phrase he had said to his mother in over a week, exactly a week, actually, but he felt absolutely no remorse for it. Anger was roaring inside him, along with something else that resembled sadness, and hopelessness; he could never tell. It was a mixture of feelings that came about every time he saw that wooden sign standing proudly in front of the main gate. “Berkeley's Mental Health Clinic” it read simply.

_How ironic,_ he thought. Mental health was definitely the last thing on his mind whenever he went through that door.

“I’ll be here to pick you up in two hours; is that alright?” asked his mother, placing a somehow reassuring hand on Mike's shoulder. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the last time she had attempted to comfort him in any way, but he came up with absolutely nothing. Not that he wanted to either.

“Whatever,” he said finally, jerking away from Mrs. Pritchard's now burning touch.

"Listen, _Michael-..._ "

"Just go... ok?" Fighting against a familiar impulse, Mike refrained from using the word _mom_. He hadn't called her that for what seemed like forever, just the same way she had abruptly stopped her use of the word _son_.

"You have something to do that's clearly more important, and even if you don't, believe me, if somebody understands why you don't wanna be here, that's me. So, please, just go already."

Mrs. Pritchard remained immobile for a few moments, silently looking at her hands folded neatly in her lap before handing over the blue, French ruled notebook that had been sitting on the dash cover. Mike grabbed it quickly, got out and slammed the car door behind him. He turned just in time to see her driving away, and he wondered how long she had been waiting to get as far away from this place as possible, or maybe she was trying to get away from him, who knew?

He tried not to care. _No, not right now... No bad memories for as long as it is humanly possible,_ he reminded himself.

Once inside the building, he walked lazily towards the front desk, smiling weakly at the girl sitting behind it. “Mike Pritchard. I have an appointment.”

“Oh, Dr. Armstrong isn’t here yet, but she shouldn’t be long. Take a seat.”

“Thanks, uhh…” Mike readjusted his eyes to focus on the name tag perched upon the woman’s chest, “…Kelly. Thanks, Kelly.”

He glanced at his watch; it was still five minutes to six. He did as he had been instructed and placed himself on the black leather couch across the front desk. There really wasn’t much to do until his therapist arrived, and he began to feel a little restless, as it often happened when he had to figure out what to do with himself.

He had sat in the same spot the first time he had been here, right next to Mrs. Pritchard, who found it impossible to stop bouncing her knee and tapping her delicate fingers on whatever object was closest. Maybe anxiety was something that ran commonly among the Pritchard family, Mike thought, but even with all her restlessness and nervous tics, having her around gave him a sense of protection, fueled by whatever bonding feelings he may have had left; that is of course, until he remembered the reason they had come here in the first place; then, it all vanished completely, leaving nothing but anger roaring inside him, along with something else that resembled sadness, and hopelessness; he could never tell.

Yes, he had sat in the same spot the first time he’d been here, right next to Mrs. Pritchard, but the truth is, for whatever reason, Mike had never taken the time to look around at his surroundings; it seemed to him that the light brown color of the walls, the pictures portraying landscapes, and the decorative plastic plants, they all had the same purpose, to ease a troubled mind, yet ease was something Mike had never been familiar with. It wasn't in his nature, and he wondered whether he should be here for a reason other than his sexual preferences.

Mike took a deep breath, somehow managing to break the mind-numbing silence of the room, which earned him a glare from Kelly. You would think that working in a place like this, she had seen worse than restless teenagers who let out excessively loud sighs, but what was there to do? Mike stuttered a quick apology as he finally settled on looking out the window to try and escape reality for a while.

Easier said than done.

His breath quickened, and his hands started to feel sweaty and shaky. After all, anxiety wasn’t exactly known to decrease as time went by, and Mike wondered how long he could take it. He tried to remind himself that his session was only an hour and a half, but he also knew that once in there, minutes seemed to last for way longer than they should, and he was running out of patience, patience he may have never had to begin with; staying silent wasn’t as difficult when Dr. Armstrong's now inappropriate attacks were nothing but seemingly innocent questions about his childhood and personal life. That wasn't the case anymore; "how was your day", "what is your first memory?", and "what are your future plans?" had slowly turned into "were you molested as a child?", "have you tried having sexual contact with a girl?", and "how often do you fantasize about having intercourse with another man?", and even though he was more than aware of the fact that his therapist was only trying to get a rise out of him, he highly doubted he would have the strength to keep on compromising himself.

A quarter past six, still no sign of Dr. Armstrong.

Suddenly, the sound of voices in the background brought Mike back to the present time. He looked up to see a short slender boy leaning against the desk; his back was facing him, yet Mike knew instantly who he was.

“Hey! Remember me?” he greeted cheerfully, trying to sound as normal as he could, and not at all like he was on the verge of having a panic attack.

“Oh, hi! Hmmm… Mike, is that right?”

“Yes! Nice to see you again, Billie Joe,” Mike wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his black hoodie.

“Thanks, it’s nice to see you too!”

Mike nodded with a smile.

Silence…

“So, what are you doing here?” Billie Joe asked.

“I’m kind of waiting for your mom.”

“You and me both. She was supposed to take me to my guitar lesson, but I guess that’s not happening now.”

“How come?”

“It started half an hour ago.”

“Oh, I see. How long have you been playing?”

“Not for long, a few months, I think.”

“Well, my session ends at seven thirty or so, and my mom won’t be here until eight. I play a little guitar myself, so if you’d like me to give you some tips, or anything-…”

“Oh… Hmmm, sounds good, but I don’t-…”

“It’s totally fine if you don’t want to; I just thought it would be a good idea.”

“No! No! It’s not that. It’s just… I’m not… I’m not allowed to even talk to you…”

Billie Joe looked down almost immediately after the words have left his mouth, almost as if he was regretting even mentioning them. Peeking out from the corner of his green eyes, he could see the confusion plastered in Mike’s face.

“Hello, sweetie!” an overly nice voice said from behind, making the shorter boy jump.

 “Oh, I’m sorry, mom. I was just telling Mike that-…”

“ _Michael_ , you’re here. Good. I’ll be with you in a minute,” Dr. Armstrong said dismissively. Then, turning her attention back to his teenage son, she continued, “Listen, honey, this is my last session of the day, maybe after I finish, we could go grab dinner or something. How does that sound?”

Billie Joe looked meekly at the guitar case lying at his feet, then back at his mother. She had clearly forgotten about his lesson. “Sounds good,” he said, at last, thinking it was probably not a good idea to start an argument right there in the middle of the lobby, let alone in the presence of two strangers. He had learned that lesson the hard way quite a long time ago. Now, he knew better than anything else that it was time to say goodbye.

“I’ll see you around, ok?” the black haired boy forced a smile. Mike could nod sheepishly as Dr. Armstrong motioned for him to follow her into her office.

“Glad to see you again. Now please have a seat,” she instructed.

_And so, it begins,_ Mike thought, bracing himself for whatever was there to come.


End file.
